Tuesday, March 18, 2003
at 7:24 PMIf This Is Your Wife, You Should Be Ashamed
I accomplished nothing thus far today. Yesterday I did read through Chapter Twenty-Nine of the Donald, for which I am quite proud of myself. I at least knocked one task off my list. Oh, and The Father did mail in my registration and housing contract information for college this fall. Ausgezeichnet.
I conducted preliminary research (via the Internet) on this Tokugawa fellow. I own nothing Japanese though, thus forcing me to ponder seriously what my visual aid ought to consist of. I suppose I could attempt to draw something, but anything produced would be just that- an attempt at art. Perhaps I could construct a timeline or a family tree. I actually prefer the latter; it places everything perspectively. Unfortunately, timelines do not generally please the eye as much as pretty pictures or artifacts, but what of that? Sensei would not deduct points for such a lack.
I played Civilization III for the approximate duration of one hour yesterday, or until The Mongoloid hovered behind the chair and requested I remove myself. He played for a few minutes, then he shut down the computer. When I reappeared later, the monitor would not turn on. I checked the cords, and they all seemed plugged in appropriately.
Yet the monitor refused to cooperate, remaining blank and black as I glared at it dejectedly. Throughout the day I returned to the study intermittently, hoping in vain to revive the computer screen. Nothing happened. The Father was engaged in several activities both within and without the household and delegated no time to aid me as I spastically fretted about what to do with myself without the computer at my disposal.
I scribbled a rough draft for my graduation letters. I included general information pertinent to everyone, then I left room available to insert more specific details, according to whom I addressed. Now I must type, print, and mail all the monsters.
I read the first several pages of The Portable Nietzche. Unfortunately, the translator's selection is piecemeal; however, I suppose this does save me some dry reading. For whatever reason I have an affinity for the works of crotchety old men (although Nietzche lost his marbles at the relatively young age of forty-four).
One of the best birthday gifts I ever received was Andy Rooney's My War. And I actually like some of Thomas Hardy's poetry.
My copy of the Marx Brothers' A Night At The Opera remains in a condition of "missing". I miss watching it. Who could I have lent it to? Dadgummit. I could cry.
The nation is marching off to war, but ALL I WANT IS MY MOVIE.
